Rapper’s Delight

This weekend had me playing with white rappers from Idaho, on their west coast tour. By “playing”, I mean me hanging out at the bar with them and the other groupies, buying them PBRs, graduating to tequila shots, to me attempting a screechy vocal reminiscent of dying cats as they rapped about big-assed bitches whose God-given duty was giving said rappers everlasting head.

Indeed, my seemingly tacit approval of ladies with large posteriors and an oral fixation gave one of the performers the idea that I was down to party. G-Spot (I think that was his stage name?) came over and purred in my ear about banging my booty for the next 48 hours. I was into it – and then I wasn’t; I was ready, then I was on the fence. See, this is when I think too much, and it goes something like this: This boy is dirty. Yes, dirty in all the right places, but also dirty as in, they’ve been in a tour-bus (or U-Haul, or dead Uncle’s van) for days, weeks, months, the closest thing to a shower being the faulty faucet in the AM/PM bathroom. As my friend says, those boys got salty balls.

Oh ferchrissakes Ariel, my libido snaps. So you throw him in a shower when you get home. What of it? But then there’s diseases, and there’s crabs, just shit I don’t want to think about at 5AM when I wake up and look over at his shaved head and “THUGZ” tattoo. And, this guy is a musician. That means he wants breakfast, because he hasn’t been inside a kitchen since he was at his grandma’s birthday party four years ago and all he’s eaten since then is beef jerky and 7-11 nachos. A bed that’s not a futon or a couch or two spare tires is also very special to a musician, not to mention the fact that you’re the big-assed bitch he raps about that’s just been dying to give him head, and not the bass player that farts constantly in his sleep. So this dude is going to stay awhile. Which is fine, I guess, except when the rest of the band members come by, banging on the door to pick him up and then go, hey, wait, is that bacon I smell? Can I use your bathroom…for the next hour? I got some laundry, you got a washing machine up in this place yo? And suddenly big-assed bitch has become den mother to lotsa salty balls.

So I slurped the dregs of my PBR, made a quick escape and took myself home, serenading the neighborhood with my cat-dying rendition of “Bitches Aint Shit.”